Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(33)

I think about her eyes.

The ocean.

Lake Crest.

I think about the fact that her eyes have found their way back into my mind…uninvited.

Then I think about how good it felt asking out her roommate.





Chapter 7





Emma



“So…it’s a little weird for you to be giving my date a present. I’m just sayin’,” Lindsey shouts from the hallway bathroom. I’m in the kitchen, layering the last batch of oatmeal cookies over the sheet of wax paper I’ve cut to fit perfectly in the tin.

“I know, but seriously, that guy saved me from having to deal with the DMV and lines and mean people,” I say, tucking a short thank you note under the lid before closing it. When she steps into the kitchen, I hand her my gift. “Here…you can just tell him your roommate is a nut, but she’s grateful. It’ll be an icebreaker—seriously, you could spend an hour on the topic of your crazy roommate alone.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lindsey says, her mouth twisted in a one-sided smile.

“You didn’t have to agree so quickly,” I laugh, turning back to our oven to shut everything off.

I don’t have many domestic skills. My laundry remains in the basket when its both dirty and clean, dishes are only done in our apartment because of Lindsey, and forget about vacuuming. I don’t really like cooking, either. But baking—that’s different. When I bake, I get to eat the ingredients along the way. It’s not like I can sample pieces of a casserole while I’m throwing in corn and meat and crap, but chocolate chip cookies? Oh yeah. Oatmeal are my favorites though—it’s the brown sugar. I could eat that stuff by the spoonful.

“Okay, enough about you. How do I look?” she asks, spinning slowly. She’s put a lot of thought into this date—blew out her hair, bought new lip gloss and I’m pretty sure she got a manicure. It’s sweet. She doesn’t go out much, even less than I do, really. It’s part of being a medical student. And I know it’s only going to get worse next year. Lindsey’s studying general surgery, I’m cardiothoracic. I’ve only ticked off three years, so only…seven left.

“You look like a total hottie,” I smile.

“Eeeek, thank you,” she squeals, before running into the bathroom one more time to check her makeup, and dashing out the door in a cloud of Victoria Secret body spray.

I shake my head, smiling at my friend, then move back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up. I run right into my tin of cookies, which stares back at me, forgotten in the midst of my friend’s excitement. I snicker quietly to myself, grabbing the tin after I finish mopping up the stray grains of sugar from the counter. I climb into the worn part of the sofa, the spot my roommate and I both refer to as my corner, raise the remote, and begin my big night out.

It’s the first night in weeks I haven’t been swallowed up completely with biology homework. I intend on watching mindless television until I can’t keep my eyes open, and it looks like I’ll also be making myself sick on oatmeal cookies. Glad I baked my favorites.

I make it twenty minutes into one of those shows where two people take over decorating a couple’s house when my phone buzzes with a text from Lindsey. I’m tempted to read it after I watch the big fight—the guy hates everything they’re doing to the house, but the wife loves it. But my phone buzzes again right away, so I mute the TV, brush the few oatmeal crumbs from my lap, and lean forward to read my text.

Help! Please.

I panic at her first text, getting to my feet fast and moving to the front door for my shoes as I scroll to her next one.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that sound that urgent. I just feel like an idiot. I don’t think this guy is going to show up. I texted him…twice. Now I just feel stupid, and I’m sitting here at Mello’s alone drinking wine like a loser.

I relax a little knowing Lindsey’s not in trouble, but I move forward with my shoes, grab my keys, and put the lid back on the cookies so we have something to share when I get to her.

On my way.

She writes back fast: You’re the best!

Mello’s is one of those places we always wanted to try, but just haven’t yet. We spent our first three years in the dorms, and decided it was easier to concentrate in a place of our own without freshmen running around screaming and hooking up with each other next door at all hours of the night. Lindsey’s parents pay most of the rent, but I chip in with what little I earn in summer jobs and the money I get from home and financial aid.

It takes me five minutes to get to the restaurant, and I find my friend sitting near the wall by the front door the second I step inside. I brush by the host table, beelining toward her and sliding into the other side of the booth quickly so I can tuck my sweatpants and sneakers underneath.

“I didn’t really dress for this,” I whisper to her, pushing the tin of cookies on the table in front of us.

“I wasn’t planning on making you my date,” she shrugs, her lips a tight smile that I know is hiding her disappointment. She pops the lid from the tin and laughs to herself when she sees the top layer is missing. “You get hungry?”

“They’re my favorite,” I smile. “Good thing you forgot them.”

“Yeah, sorry. I was just so nervous, I left without my key, too, so I would have had to call you or ring the doorbell like mad anyhow,” she says.